Cobblestones and Tiaras
by LabyrinthDweller
Summary: It was pretty, yes, royal, definitely; something he would expect to see gracing the head of such a princess deserving of it. But he didn't feel Anastasia deserved it.


_I found this...lying around on my computer. I don't remember when I started it, but I reread it today and was actually quite intrigued as to what my original plan was for this story. I have since forgotten, but maybe I dropped it because I simply could not find an ending. So I finished it quickly, it's actually quite sappy at the end. Maybe a little rushed. It's kinda late. Enjoy!_

_PS: I actually enjoyed Rasputin's involvement in the movie. Not only is Christopher Lloyd Rasputin (snicker) but the Lovecraftian style of his magic fits well for the mid to late 20's, when Lovecraft himself was in his prime. (Seriously though, those green goblins are the spitting image of nightgaunts and I'm a sucker for Lovecraft. I have such...broad tastes.)_

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**Cobblestones and Tiaras**

There's something to be said for the glittering diamonds arranged in perfect order to reflect the fiery hair of a Russian Princess. The crown was bright and rich but delicate enough to provide an appealing portrait of one of the last royals in the Western World. When Dmitri had unhooked it from the jagged molars of the mutt's jaws, he had wished that it didn't exist. It was pretty, yes, royal, definitely; something he would expect to see gracing the head of such a princess deserving of it.

But he didn't feel Anastasia deserved it.

Not in the way he saw her anyways. Oh, she was every bit as royal and deserving as she should be to receive such a gift; her beauty was uncanny, her fierce red hair (now tussled and dusty) and her brilliant blue eyes (now weary and relieved) alone could result in her undenying seat as heir to the dead Russian throne. Yes, Anastasia deserved such an immaculate thing after so much bloodshed and hate, but only in the eyes of an outsider. When he saw the crown resting in her slender hands Dmitri felt sick to the stomach. He did not want to see her lift it up to her head, he did not want to see the diamonds sparkle above the spark in her eyes. He did not want to look at the girl, at the woman he had traveled with for three months and see that she had somehow _changed_ within the course of a day to become a Princess with a capital _P_, a royal, a noble, one so high, mighty, and self-righteous while he, still, remained so low, scrawny, and inept.

He did not want to look this woman in the eyes and see that Anya had gone and left him behind, he did not want to see the death of her within Anastasia's eyes. Part of him wanted to deeply believe that his Anya had fallen and drowned in the river, drowned in her filthy canvas dress, and the woman he rescued from the sorcerer was none other than the lost princess Anastasia, nothing more, nothing less. He wanted to believe that his Anya was dead and gone to avoid the pain, the deep seated pain that Dmitri could not for the life of him name. In a perfect world Anastasia would've remained dead and Anya would still be alive, but ah, as a Russian, as a Soviet, Dmitri could honestly, truthfully say that this world was very far from perfect.

It was solely his fault and he knew it. He wanted to resurrect Anastasia, and so he painstakingly did, from every last detail, and here she was, just as he always wanted, and now he doesn't want her anymore. Dmitri would rather leave her all behind with the damned prize money glaring at him from beyond the suitcase, leave her behind along with every hurtful, demeaning, heavy emotion that weighed him down and tied him to the streets of Paris so tightly that he had missed the last train out of the station to save her from a rambling skeleton of a man. Damn it all. They were waiting for her, and that's all he needed to say before he turned to leave the broken bridge that he would soon mentally set on fire.

Against everything he just promised himself, he stole one final glance at her to mentally change her image in his head. Emotive dimpled cheeks turned to frozen, cold pads of fat. Slim, buttony nose turned to a softly curved sickle. The brilliance of her blue eyes turned to cold marble, the fire of her hair died to embers and ash, and her plush lips now seemed like stiff glass to him as opposed to only moments before. He cleared his throat quietly to choke down tears. As much as he tried to, he could not hold the ugly image of her in his head for long and thus took off at a brisk pace to where he had abandoned his coat, hat, and suitcase. Behind him he could just picture her, staring into the distance, seeing past his poor form, raising the crown over to rest in her rusty hair. Pain stabbed him in the gut and he broke out into a run even though each step made his head throb horribly from the bruise that had definitely formed there. Good-bye, good-bye everything. Good-bye Anastasia, good-bye Anya, good-bye Paris, good-bye dreams.

"Wait! I said _wait_ you stupid lug-headed son of a—_Fine_!"

He had almost reached his few possessions when something sharp struck him in the shoulder and careened past him, clattering and cartwheeling over the cobblestones in the street. Dmitri stopped dead in his tracks in surprise, watching the delicate little shoe come to a stop over a rounded sewer cap. He turned to see Anastasia march up to him, torn shreds of her gown gathered up in her tight fists. Stupefied (and mildly frightened), he watched her approach, expecting cold anger and maybe even hate. After all, he was only a con-man as far as she knew.

Exasperated, Anastasia heaved a harsh sigh that blew a lock of awkwardly curled hair away from her eyes. Throwing down the edges of her gown in such a dramatic way it almost reminded him of a child throwing a tantrum, Anya glared at him. Her breathing was angry and impatient as Dmitri steeled himself for the coming confrontation.

"And just where do you think _you're going_?"

"I was never meant for here," Dmitri scowled rather calmly, "But why does that matter to you?"

Anastasia squeaked before roaring, "_What?_"

"_Look_," Dmitri said, raising his hands as though he was going to grasp her shoulders to emphasize his point, but he dropped them after awkwardly waving in the air, "You've got what you want. And so do I. Good-bye then, Your Highness."

"_You lying son of a whore!_" she spat. Dmitri's lip curled, he knew this would come should they meet outside formal circumstances. Turning on his heel, he pretended not to hear the insult he had heard before and was bound to hear again. Had he actually listened and heard that in her voice his heart might've stopped. It was okay though. It was better this way; she'd marry a prince now, most likely a proper English one, and have her happily ever after. The end.

"_Don't walk away from me, _Dmitri!" she screamed, and he ignored until her nails dug into his skin and pulled him back. He rolled his eyes and prepared his sharpest wit for a harsh battle of ending ties until he realized she was crying.

Dmitri was familiar with tears. He had seen tears of all types over the turbulent past, and had even cried a few himself. Tears of sadness, pity, confusion, rage, happiness, relief, he had seen and known the faces of them all. As much as some bitter part of him that wanted this to end as soon as possible wished she were acting, there was no falsity to the desperation on her face. It was a face he had seen many times before on the streets of Soviet Russia. He searched in vain for any trace of hate or anger, and found only more desperation, fear, and even confusion.

He was about to ask what was wrong when the reason hit him. Of course. _It was him_. It was everything he had possibly done; he had promised her fame and family, danced with her, saving her from death, talking idly, being snarky with her, leading her to her grandmother, allowing her to believe all of his criminal actions and allowing himself to never explain himself to her. And now, leaving her alone after such a traumatic ordeal...

True, there must've been other contributing factors. Perhaps she was suddenly realizing all the duties a princess had to bear, especially as the last of her bloodline.

Dmitri wanted to apologize, to offer anything to make it up to her, but he was torn. He shouldn't be involved with her anymore, but he couldn't just leave her as such, no, he cared for her too much.

Dmitri felt sick.

Sick to his stomach, sick with how unsure he was, sick at how his words, always so sharp and smooth, were suddenly failing him, sick at the sight of how broken up she appeared to be. This wasn't something he could cure with a drop of cold medicine and a few days in bed. No, this was something he feared would chase him to the corners of the earth, something he would never lose. Finally he was going to say something to her, he knew what he was going to say. It wasn't profound nor was it comforting, but it was something to break the silence and perhaps end this grueling farewell.

"You are the _worst_ criminal I've ever heard of!" Anastasia interrupted before he could even speak.

Hmm, no, the more he thought about it, this sounded like Anya resurrected from the grave.

He stared at her, wide-eyed in confusion and head cocked to the side, "_Excuse_ me?"

Anya marched up until they were breaths away and stuck her chin up at his face, "Even the stupidest criminals would take ten thousand rubels at the sight of their _success_, Dmitri."

Everything became blown out of proportion to the background for Dmitri as he gawked at her. There was nothing he could say in response, and suddenly he felt a wave of shame overcome him. The silence was shared between them as Anya rubbed the tears childlishly away from her eyes to calm herself down.

"Oh," he said softly.

"_Oh_." she echoed harshly.

Silence.

"Idiot," Anya sniffed, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Dmitri was silent as he thought for a moment. What _was_ he doing? Well, aside from the con, if everything about his crimes, greed, and neediness were set aside, what _was_ he doing?

He stared at her, trying to find the answer.

That beautiful face, shining in the lamplight due to the tears staining her cheeks. What had he done that for? It was a simple question, and a simple answer. After all was said and done he'd rather her be happy; she needed to be happy, not him. He could deal with the sorrow and the pain, he was a Russian through and through, a Soviet peasant from blood to bone. Dmitri was used to it, he could easily blend in, he could slip away from trouble, he was hard to remember. But she, no, she didn't look like the type to deal with sadness well. Hell, here she was, sobbing in front of him because she had trouble dealing with herself, she couldn't bear the utter destruction he knew so well. Even if she was raised in the orphan house, she did not belong there and could not belong there, in that situation, in the foster care of mother Russia for a moment longer. He had found a way for her to let go of her pain and have him take the burden for her, because her pain he could bear.

Anya's face flushed an embarrassing red as she cried, but she did not seem to notice as she bit the last of her tears away and straightened her neck proudly, avoiding his gaze and pulling herself together by pushing her emotions away.

_Her pain he could bear_.

She was saying something, something low and meaningful and distant but he wasn't hearing the extent of her words. It sounded, just by tone of voice, like a farewell, wrapped in her sorrow and tied in her pain.

The pain that he could bear.

"Anya, _Anya_," Dmitri was breathless. He had interrupted her and for once he ignored the indignant retorts she was giving him as soon as he spoke. His mind was moving and he couldn't stop it. Something had happened, something had _clicked_ and now things were different. He felt dizzy.

"Anya, I love you."

At first she had started to speak as though she had prepared a sharp reply, but when the words finally hit her, her mouth closed until it was nothing but a speck between her soft lips. Blue eyes wide, she stared at him in disbelief.

"I do, I don't know—when this, I wasn't...," The more Dmitri stared, the more he lost himself, "I didn't mean...I do, Anya, I just...I _do_."

Her expression didn't change, prompting Dmitri's heart to start to sink. Curiously enough, despite her almost ghostly reaction, he felt elated—elated in such a sense that he was fluttering, his shoulders were high and wide, his breaths were deep but quick, and his eyes blended the world into a sweet painting of impressionist color. Even as stones were settling in his gut and he felt his feet turn to cement, he felt, at the very least, free. Free from the cage of his mind and heart, free from judgment, free from punishment, free from his own turmoil. Yes, _god_ he loved her. That was why this was so difficult, that was why he felt as though he was tearing himself away, that's why he felt pain at her every wrong move. He knew that later the stillness of her expression was going to snag him back into the depths of remorse and despair, but he was not going to wait around until that happened, he was not going to let her see how easily he could fall, he wished to leave with some semblance of respect in her eyes now that he had momentarily regained it. Hastily, he gathered his things together, but before he could turn and run she punched him square in the jaw.

Yelping in surprise, he dropped his things and grasped his jaw, reeling from the unexpected force and the sore pain he was already in. All right, he was not expecting tears of joy, but he wasn't expecting a fist to the _face_, either. Oh, how he wanted to snap at her! He opened his mouth to do just that, in fact, but before he could her lips sealed his in a kiss.

"Run with me," she breathed after she broke away, hands kneading his now-fraying vest.

"What?" Dmitri asked in a stupor, just as breathless as he was before. She was warm, she was full, she promised more and she wanted him, despite everything he'd done, despite all the lies, deceit, scandal, and fights with her. Dmitri had to fight to keep his mind away from cloud nine, if he let it escape there he didn't know if he'd ever come back down.

"Run with me," Anya repeated, "Take me wherever you'd like, as long as I'm with you."

"But you, you're—,"

"_I'm_ the Princess, _I_ can do whatever _I_ want." she interrupted him snidely.

Pooka whined in anticipation after a moment of silence, wagging his stubby tail as he watched Dmitri through the mess of the fur hanging in his eyes. Dmitri glanced down at the small pup, laying awkwardly on the discarded tiara on the ground near their feet. Was this the first time the mutt didn't seem to be antagonizing him just for the purpose of personal gain? He actually did look pretty cute for being a little mucked up. The tiara beneath the pooch's small body looked odd in comparison, such a diamond treasure paired with such a dusty wanderer. It did not fit the picture. Pooka cocked his head, waiting for Dmitri's answer. Huh. He had never thought about it that way.

He looked back to Anya, studying her blue eyes as though they were his favorite sky.

"Marry me."

Anya smiled at him, resting her face on his chest as she rocked back and forth on the cobblestone street.


End file.
